


Just a dream...

by Chatote



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Between teh and tst, Drugs, Hallucinations, M/M, Pre-Slash, how does he cope?, johb is with mary, post-recheinbach, so Sherlock is alone in 221B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9236318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chatote/pseuds/Chatote
Summary: Sherlock misses John. A lot.





	

Sherlock had never been one for nostalgia. Not once had he missed his childhood or his years in college. Funny, how things change. Oh, he still didn’t miss those times. But he missed the past. He missed feeling John around him in 221B and seeing John sat in his armchair and John’s soft perfume of hot fire and home. He missed John’s touch, too. They used to be very tactile with each other. A hand on the shoulder, fingers brushing… That was before. 

Sherlock sighed. He was lying on the sofa, wrapped in his beige dressing gown, waiting for the drugs to take effect. Not-real-John will be here soon. He had started to use after coming back from Serbia, when he had understood John wasn’t coming back. The dose was precisely measured so that it wouldn’t be fatal — he couldn’t die again, John had forbidden him to — but cause hallucinations. The front door of the flat was locked. He didn’t want Mrs. Hudson to interrupt his… _session_ , as Mycroft would call it. 

His eyes wandered around 221B. It always amazed him how people couldn’t see the difference between the old flat and this one. Wasn’t it obvious enough? The silent kettle, the empty armchair, the fridge without anything comestible in it and this distinct lack of… John. The flat was empty without him, like an abandoned house in a dark suburb. Sherlock wasn’t enough to fill the void. 

The silence was infuriating. It was driving him mad. He didn’t have the courage to do anything about it, though. Playing the violin seemed inappropriate right now. Instead, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and started a countdown. _65… 64… 63… Sesenta y tres… 62… 61… 60… 60 seconds in a minute. The second is the duration of 9 192 631 770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium 133 atom… 59… 58…_

When he opened his eyes a couple of minutes later, John was here. Well, not John. It was not-real-John. An almost perfect clone of the real army doctor supplied by Sherlock’s subconscious. He was sitting in his armchair, reading the news, a cup of tea in his hand. Hehad a jumper, just like the old John. The one from before the Fall. Sherlock’s John. 

Sherlock stood up from the sofa and took a few shy steps toward him. Despite their numerous encounters, he was still afraid not-real-John would disappear if he came too close. But not-real-John didn’t even rose his head as Sherlock stood behind his own chair. 

He was starring at not-real-John, taking in every line of his face. Maybe… Maybe he could make a bold move, for once. Sherlock took a deep breath and pushed his chair closer to not-real-John. He didn’t react. Sherlock smiled and pushed it again. Once he was satisfied, he sat and went back to starring at his hallucination. 

Minutes passed, morphing into hours, and Sherlock didn’t move. Their chairs were so close their feet touched. Their knees brushed every few minutes. It wasn’t silent anymore. The flat was full of not-real-John’s breathing and of the beating of his heart. Sherlock could hear it, this calming _tudum_ coming from not-real-John’s torso. He was at peace, finally. Sometimes, when he was sure not-real-John wouldn’t disappear, he would closed his eyes and imagine it was real.

‘Sherlock,’ not-real-John eventually said. He had John’s voice. Exactly the same tone, the same intonations. He was saying Sherlock’s name like real-John was saying it. He had the same brown eyes too. Two beautiful brown eyes currently looking at him. ‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock took his time to answer. 

‘I’m looking at you, obviously,’ he said. Not-real-John sighed. He folded his newspaper and put it on the table next to the now empty cup of tea. 

‘I don’t mean _now_ , Sherlock,’ John said. ‘What are you doing? What did we say about _this_? About drugs?’ Sherlock frowned. He couldn’t remember their previous encounters with precision. The memories of not-real-John were always clouded by the drugs. He closed his eyes to concentrate. 

‘We talked about… About…’ he tried. ‘I don’t remember.’ He lowered his head in shame. He _hated_ disappointing John, both the real and the not real one. Fingers closed softly around his chin and pushed his head upward. His eyes met not-real-John’s ones. Those beautiful, beautiful eyes. His lips were curled in a small and sad smile. 

‘We agreed that you had to stop, Sherlock,’ not-real-John whispered. ‘You _have_ to stop before the drugs kill you. What would happen then? We need you, Sherlock. _I_ need you.’ He stroke Sherlock’s pale cheek with his thumb, his eyes looking at the detective with adoration. Sherlock closed his eyes as pain shot through his heart. He knew it wasn’t real. It was just his mind telling him what he wanted to hear. 

When he reopened his eyes, not-real-John’s lips were inches away from his, waiting — _calling_ _—_ him. This was the part of the hallucination that always stayed clear in his mind. The one he was the most looking forward to. The one he was the most afraid of. The one he repeated again and again during those many nights when sleep was a secret kept from him. 

Sherlock could feel not-real-John’s breath on his cheeks. His skin was burning under the hot hair. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, hoping to finally — _finally —_ feel John’s lips on his own. His face closed when he only met air. That was were the hallucination stopped. Always. John would never be his. Not even in dreams. Not even in drug-induced hallucinations. How pathetic. 

He collapsed in his chair, empty of energy. He was alone again. Not-real-John was gone. The deep silence was here again. A tear he couldn’t find the courage to hold back rolled down his cheek and fell on his knees. John would never be his. It was just a dream. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really love playing with not-real-John apparently.   
> I love kudos and comments too ;)


End file.
